


Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by tumblybee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Objectification, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Rutting, Sexual Fantasy, Sleepy/Unconscious Sex, Somnophilia, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblybee/pseuds/tumblybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark has a drinking problem, and he never asked Steve Rogers to look after him. Steve Rogers has his own problems, and one of them is that pouring Tony into bed after he's overindulged doesn't bother him one bit. No, the hard part is not indulging his own fantasies right in Tony's own bedroom.</p><p>No Captain America: Civil War spoilers- referenced events up to IM3 & Avengers. Maybe will become a multi-chapter fic from a long-ago Bingo challenge (prompt: Somnophilia) that I did not complete, but stands as a PWP one-shot right now. Notes/ spoilery warnings are at the end of the fic.  Unbetaed, edits & con-crit welcome- be gentle, first fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

"One day, I'm going to wake up to you sucking the life out of me, Sparkles," Tony drawled as he woke. He stretched, warm and flush with sleep. His back arched a little and Steve's gaze dipped of its own volition. Tony's belt was off (his doing) and the top button of his slacks had also been undone. That was also his doing, but Steve would maintain his innocence. No man wanted to sleep with buttons digging into their belly. Any friend would have done the same, while putting their soused friend to bed for the fourth time in two weeks.

He was not responsible for the untucked state of Tony's shirt. That had slipped free in the night. Steve dragged his gaze back to Tony's face, only to catch the other man studying him, far too intelligently for someone who should be nursing a punishing hangover. He stiffened as he registered what Tony had said. Unfortunately, he understood that reference and his face warmed accordingly. Clearing his throat, he pretended he hadn't just been staring at the trail of hair marching its way up Tony's stomach.

"I wasn't thinking of-" he cringed- "Jesus, Tony. You were three sheets to the wind after that gala. Happy had to pour you outta the limo. I was a little worried you'd aspirate on your own puke.”

The diversion was successful. Tony frowned deeply at the criticism as he always did. He seemed to think it was that Steve disapproved of his drinking. Which, yeah, Steve might have some bad associations with the kind of routine drinking Tony loved to engage in. That didn’t mean he thought Tony was a drunk. Or at least if he was, he was a high-functioning alcoholic these days. Steve hadn’t been as worried as he pretended to be.

“Aw, Cap.” Tony said, his sleepy tone gone syrupy. “Just because you’re always sober as a funeral doesn’t mean the rest of us have to live that way. I promise, when I die in bed I’ll be ninety-two and in the company of enough young women that they can form a support group to deal with the trauma.”

Steve scowled back. “Good to know, Stark. Pity you didn’t manage to bring home any of them to look after you last night.” He stood with his sketchpad loosely in front of him, exiting before Tony could catch sight of the partial erection he was sporting. He took the elevator straight from the penthouse to the floor below, fingers crossed that he could avoid Natasha as he retreated to his suite.  


 

* * *

  
The night before, Tony hadn’t been as incoherent as Steve had implied. He’d been sloppy drunk, sure. He’d been warm and affectionate as he pawed at Steve’s shoulder and chest and complained about the socialites he couldn’t bring home. Steve had never really gotten an answer as to _why_ he hadn’t brought any of them home- he had seen his profile and it wasn’t that he wasn’t capable, and Tony’s words themselves made it clear that it wasn’t a lack of interest on his part.

He didn’t think Tony was still holding out for Miss Potts. That had been a messy breakup, precipitated not by Miss Potts as even Natasha had anticipated, but by Tony himself.  Steve still wasn’t completely certain on the particulars- he knew that Tony had rather _spectacularly_ given up his role as Iron Man in what he’d dubbed a ‘House Party’, but that evidently had not been enough. Or perhaps that gesture had been undermined when Tony had returned to the team- ‘on a consulting and design basis only, Pep’. All Steve knew was that the time their benefactor spent with his girl had decreased over the course of a year, and then there had been a quiet discussion in the living room that Steve had inadvertently walked in on. Both of them had been in tears when it was done, and then the drinking had started.

Tony’s tailspin had been dramatic enough at the onset that Steve had struggled to find some kind of intervention that wouldn’t send the stubborn, temperamental inventor off on something irrecoverable. Six months later, things had settled and though Steve didn’t like the drinking, it had tapered off into something that was acceptable if not palatable. At least Tony seemed mostly happy when he was drunk these days. True, he looked a bit more like the playboy that had gotten right under Steve’s skin in the SHIELD file, but that description didn’t cover the way Tony had worked to carve out spaces for each member of the team. Nor did it encompass the qualities of a man who had spent three solid weeks on a device that, coupled with the equivalent of horse-tranquilizers, helped render Steve almost sedated and relatively pain-free during invasive surgeries. (It ran on ‘some kind of electricity’.)

Steve was pretty sure Tony wasn’t quite over Miss Potts, but he was usually a sweet drunk instead of a morose and tetchy one these days.  Putting Tony to bed hadn’t become a habit exactly, but this hadn’t been the first time Steve had done it, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. These days, he found himself looking guiltily forward to it.  

Last night had been no different from the most recent occasions. Tony had shambled in and was passed from chauffeur to team leader like the world's most cumbersome party favor. Noisy just like one too, laughing at a joke only he had heard. Steve didn't like that Tony felt such a strong need to drink, but he took pleasure in Tony's inebriation when he was like that, even if he himself was always sober. Tony was just-  _himself,_ but even less inhibited.   
  
Most importantly, he touched Steve when he was drunk. Nothing untoward. Nothing he expressed outright regret for, in the mornings when he could remember his own actions. He leaned against Steve. Cuddled, even. Pawed at his wrist and tugged him along toward the bar, insisting that Steve should enjoy himself too, forgetting that none of the alcohol they had could yet put a dent in Steve's constitution. He would chatter on and on about the women Steve could have danced with at the gala, if only he had come along. Steve would nod along- he didn’t care for Tony’s matchmaking any more than he did Natasha’s, but he was rather more inclined to tolerate it when he had a warm body leaning against his own.

Last night, Tony had pouted when Steve had poured a glass of water in him and marched him over to the couch to stay awake as Steve finished hydrating him for the night. And then he'd shrugged off his six-thousand jacket and used Steve as a clothes tree, tossing the jacket on him and looping his silk tie over Steve's neck, laughing at Steve's expense when he batted the jacket off his face. Steve had gotten two more glasses of water in him during the gaps in Tony's drunken monologue recounting the gala.

Eventually, by the time Steve had stopped indulging in the kind of unbridled platonic affection that Tony would never offer sober, Tony had fallen asleep on his chest. He’d drooled when his jaw went lax. Eventually, Steve had nudged Tony into a semblance of wakefulness, walked him to the elevator and held him upright on the journey to Tony’s suite. Tony mumbled the whole way there, and by the time he made it to the bed he’d flopped down, back of his head not quite up to the pillow before he was snoring. One knee was on the bed, the other leg hadn’t quite made it. Steve rationalized the whole time he repositioned Stark to sleep that he was doing a favor for a friend. Still, all he'd really needed was to make sure he wouldn't choke in the night. Steve believed in the vindictive type of justice enough that he'd left Tony to get an awful crick in his neck and back before, but he didn't now. A familiar warmth had pulsed in his belly as Tony rolled easily with Steve's guiding touch, falling onto his side with a gust of air from parted, wet lips. Tony’s hand had fallen and curled loose against his stomach when Steve made him more comfortable for bed, fingers never straying.

Steve had waited until he’d left the room to indulge himself, guilty and furtive in Tony's own bathroom, intervening door locked securely. Tony might not have woken up even if Steve had pleasured himself right there, but that was several dozen steps past wrong. That- had probably not been much better, touching himself while he pictured his best friend, but at least he was alone. Steve was pretty sure he hadn’t incriminated himself to the AI regarding his creator in any way- even if the cameras could have seen him looking down at Tony as he slept, it wasn’t like he’d really looked away from Tony’s slack, restful face.

There wasn’t a need to look anywhere any more intimate. As soon as privacy was guaranteed Steve had slumped with his back against the bathroom door. His belt buckle clinked against itself as he worked open his jeans. He hadn’t stripped any further and the elastic of his briefs rubbed at his wrist as he fisted himself, door jouncing once or twice as he thrust into his own hand. That night, Steve came in minutes with his chest heaving.

He had cleaned himself up, careful to eliminate any evidence of his doings, and then posted himself at Tony's bedside armchair. He hadn’t really believed Tony would vomit, he didn't seem that badly off, but something in him itched at the thought of leaving Tony alone. Maybe Tony was a happy drunk these days, but the mere fact that he was so cheerful and unrestricted when he was full of booze and around people suggested to Steve that alone and sober wasn't the way he wanted to wake up.   


* * *

  
The next day after Tony had woken and called him out, Steve still couldn’t shake the fantasy. It was Saturday, so he changed into sweatpants and a tee-shirt before he tended his suite. The record player was turning, playing a new big band record he'd picked up, and he hummed as he worked. There may have been hired help, but Steve was born from the kinda folks who were the hired help and it never sat right with him to have somebody else do his dusting. At the same time, he remembered being grateful for odd jobs that the rich set him on. Maybe it meant they weren't self-sufficient, but it gave him the opportunity to be so. Still, he was pretty sure in a place like the Tower that people weren't going to find themselves on any breadlines because his suite was off limits. He'd adapting to sending (most of) his laundry down, but he still looked after his own belongings. Today was the first Saturday of the month, so he was dusting, mopping, scrubbing the grout and the drains with a toothbrush in addition to his usual tasks.

Still, none of the work was complicated enough to occupy his thinking. New York had been quiet lately, HYDRA hadn't made a peep, and Steve was going round the bend. That was the only explanation for how damn long he'd spent thinking about this damn scenario. It was far worse now than when he'd been a teenager. Back then he hadn't been healthy enough to have the desire to touch himself so much. He nearly knocked the ceiling fan from its mooring when a glint of light from the metal reminded him of how Tony's arc reactor used to shine before his surgery. By the time he was replacing the sheets on his bed with fresh ones with military corners, his calves were flexing as he pictured Tony spread out like a starfish there. He stood, pillow clutched in both fists, glaring down at the nondescript blue comforter. Tony's was black, of all colors, his sheets a stark white. His dark hair had fallen in disarray against the white pillowcase last night, his gold tan bright against the sheets. Their beds didn't even look remotely similar, except that they were both flat surfaces, but the pause was long enough that Steve's baser urges got the best of him.

His present fantasy was as deliberately envisioned as any strategy or painting he’d planned in his lifetime.

Tony’s slack wet lips would press against his cockhead without resistance as Steve held his foreskin back with his finger and thumb. Steve would brace his palm on the wall and tease himself with Tony’s mouth until he was achingly hard. Tony would huff and shift in his sleep. He’d roll onto his side, and Steve would settle to the mattress, move him to his stomach- he’d go so easy, just like when Steve put him to bed at the start of the night. He’d rest on his stomach and never quite wake from his drunken stupor. Not quite. Steve would rut against him without dignity, elbows planted into the mattress. The sound of their bodies would be muffled by the dress clothes Tony wouldn’t be coherent enough to take off. The bed would tremble. Maybe Tony would writhe in his sleep as the weight and the heat and the smell of Steve’s arousal built up around them. Perhaps he’d squirm as Steve stifled the cry of his orgasm into his shoulder.

Maybe, still not-quite-coherent, he’d fuck against the bed like Steve had fucked against him. Maybe he could come like that too, and wake as dazed as a teenager with stained sheets. Steve had never stopped to consider their interactions, when he imagined fucking against Tony like this, couldn’t fathom Tony waking to turn to him and complain about not being let in on the fun. He could imagine how those lips would feel against him, by wetting his thumb and pressing under his cockhead, at the frenulum, the weeping slit. He’d first learned to masturbate back in the thirties, when he’d woken with his leg hitched over the edge of the threadbare couch, and he imagined straddling Tony would be even better. But he had no context for what it would be like if Tony genuinely wanted him, rather than being an insufferable tease. He didn’t try to imagine those things, lest the wanting get ahold of him. Better to stick to- disrespectful, _filthy_ \- contemplations of how Tony’s thigh might feel, how Steve could turn him on his back and- and hump him, strong muscle relaxed under him- how Tony’s shallow, even breaths would spill against the sweat of his neck as Steve pressed his nose to the hair at his temple- how the heat and damp would grow between their bodies, how his steady heartbeat would thump against Steve’s chest as Steve… used him.

"Fuck," Steve breathed aloud into the pillow. He'd brought it to his face unthinkingly. It didn't smell like anything in particular, and he found himself grasping for the memory of Tony's personally-crafted scent. Steve had blanched with horror when he'd first found out that people spent money on shampoo and conditioner that was literally their signature scent, but now he was merely annoyed because it meant he couldn't quite mimic the exact spice blend of Tony's hair for his own unacceptable purposes.

Steve shifted. The sweatpants didn't restrain his erection in the least. His cock swayed heavily, tenting the fabric with an obscene silhouette. The blonde looked up at the ceiling in exasperation with himself, shortly before he flushed with embarrassment.  
  
“Uh, JARVIS, can I get a minute to myself?” He asked, voice a little strangled. Thank God JARVIS (probably) couldn’t read his mind. He’d heard the spiel from Tony about how being embarrassed in front of an all-knowing AI was silly, but that hadn’t changed his opinion on the matter in the slightest. He was comfortable enough with JARVIS being around most of the time- he was nice to talk to, and Steve didn’t feel quite so alone with him there. But there were things he would just not do when the cameras were rolling.  
  
“Certainly, Captain. I will remain ‘out’ until you tap one of the screens.” JARVIS said, and if he had any idea why Steve wanted a 'minute to himself he did not let on. The moment Steve heard the soft _click_ through the speakers that JARVIS used to signal a cessation of monitoring, he collapsed onto his freshly made bed.  
  
“Come on, Rogers, you’re better than this.” Steve muttered aloud, seated with his bare heels still on the carpet, his hands tugging at his hair. He might not have been, but the buzz of the Avengers alert interrupted his ‘minute to himself’ before he’d so much as gotten to himself. Tony’s wry voice echoed over the Tower’s intercom, stealing JARVIS’ thunder as it were.

“All right, team, looks like you have a fun one on your hands…”

It was a welcome respite, even as he eyed his restrictive leathers balefully. For once, Steve found himself grateful Tony wouldn’t be in the field with the team. It was going to be hard enough with his voice in his ear, giving advice (and, frankly, getting in the metaphorical way). Steve wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle maneuvers with him right now, even with the suit between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning/triggers: The somnophilia / sexual fantasies contained herein are not exactly fantasies of non-consensual actions, but there is some objectification going on in this in that Steve imagines sexual acts while Tony is sleeping, intoxicated, and vulnerable, and does not fantasize with Tony as an active participant. His lack of imagining reciprocation is more about Steve's self-confidence/inability to imagine Tony showing interest in him than a desire to genuinely use Tony irrespective of Tony's desires. No actual non-con will occur at any point. This will be updated if this becomes a multi-chapter fic and changes.


End file.
